This Charming Man
by elysedd
Summary: Taxi Journeys with Sherlock Holmes. John has just returned from Afghanistan. A bizarre stranger calling himself 'the world's only Consulting Detective' keeps hijacking his taxis. Based on the lyrics to 'This Charming Man' by The Smiths.
1. Chapter 1

**This Charming Man**

**Author's note:** Before you read; yes, this fic was inspired by yet _another _Smiths song and I'm really, really sorry about that. I promise I will write something with no relevance to their music someday! Thank you for your patience with my complete lack of imagination.

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but not me. Unfortunately.

* * *

_Chapter 1_

_Perfect, just perfect._ John sighs to himself and wrinkles his nose in disgust at the heavy rain as he stands on the pavement outside St. Mary's Hospital. When he'd arrived there earlier for a routine check-up on his injuries, the sun had been shining and John was convinced that today was going to be a good day, but after receiving the news that doctors still couldn't work out what was wrong with his leg, he was considerably less optimistic. The weather had just confirmed what John was thinking; it was definitely going to be a rubbish day.

In one hand he clutches his cane and the other pulls his jacket tightly around himself as the rain soaks him through. He squints at an approaching taxi and sticks his arm out to catch the cabbie's attention. The cab brakes to a halt in front of him, crashing through a muddy puddle and sending a wave of cold water onto the pavement and into John's shoes, soaking his socks. He winces as he struggles to climb into the back of the cab.

"Bloody stupid leg," he mutters to himself, rubbing his aching knee as he sits, dripping, in the back seat.

"Maple Street, please mate." John turns and reaches for the door, but before he can swing it closed, a tall stranger in a long black coat clambers into the cab beside him.

"Via Mount Street," barks the stranger. John splutters in protest, but the man slams the door behind him before he can object and the cab swiftly pulls away from the pavement. John stares at him in indignant shock.

The man is tall and rake thin with unhealthily pale skin. His dark hair is dripping wet and plastered to his face, yet his expression is thrilled and he's practically bouncing in his seat. He pulls his Blackberry from his coat pocket and taps merrily away at the keys, ignoring John completely.

"You-what," John says stupidly. He's stunned into silence by the sheer cheek of the man. "What the hell are you doing?" he finally manages to finish.

The stranger pauses typing and raises an eyebrow at John. "I'm in your cab," he states derisively.

"Yes, but what are you doing in my cab? Wait for your own!" John says fiercely. The man's mocking tone is doing nothing but infuriating John, and he briefly wonders as to the amount of time he would spend in prison for attacking this rude stranger with his metal cane. _Calm down_, he tells himself sternly.

The man stares at John as if he's mental. "I don't have all day to wait for an empty taxi to come along." _3 years isn't really such a long time_, John thinks, his fist longing to give the git a good smack in the jaw.

Instead, he scoffs. "So you just jump into other people's, right. Your need is greater than mine then, is it?"

"Yes," the man says simply. He finishes his message, fingers typing quickly, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. He sighs. "I am investigating the murder of Melissa Remington, and if all goes to plan, the murderer should be breaking into her flat, just about-" he pauses and checks his phone again. "-now. If I'd waited for another cab to come along, I'd probably be too late to catch him. So," he continues, concentrating on something outside the window. "Yes, my need for a taxi was greater than yours. Does that satisfy you?"

John is momentarily stunned into silence. "Well, it was very rude," he finishes lamely. He is slightly embarrassed at having made such a fuss when all he's going to do is sit down with a book when he finally gets home. The man ignores him, still staring out of the window.

"Who are you anyway? With the police?" he asks curiously. The man snorts at his suggestion.

"No, I am not with the police." He frowns. "When the police are out of their depth, they consult me."

"Why would they come to you?" John asks. The question comes out more brusquely than he intends, but he has a point. What problems could the police possibly have that they need this bizarre, arrogant and frankly rude stranger to help with?

The man rolls his eyes and sighs as if John is being incredibly stupid. "Because I see things that ordinary people don't. Not like that," he snaps when John's eyes grow wide and he thinks of psychic skills and supernatural powers. "I notice things. You all _see _but you don't _observe_."

"For example," he continues, eyeing John up and down. "You've recently returned from active service in Afghanistan. Injured in action – bullet wound to the shoulder. I'd say medic, but doctor's looking more likely. Yes, a doctor. Oh, and your limp-" his eyes snap to the cane John's gripping. "Psychosomatic," he mutters. John isn't sure if he was meant to hear that.

"How in the world-" John starts incredulously, but before he can finish his question, the stranger is yelling for the taxi driver to stop and tossing a handful of change onto the front passenger seat. He throws the door open and scrambles out of the cab, whilst John sits is silence, still reeling in shock from the accuracy of the stranger's deductions.

"Wait," he manages weakly. There are so many questions whirling around his mind and he doesn't know which to ask, so he settles for the easiest. "Who are you?"

The man leans down and pokes his head into the cab, his eyes gleaming madly with excitement. He grabs a small piece of card from his jacket pocket and flings it at John.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," he says, and with a wink, he slams the door and sprints down the street with his black coat flying out behind him, looking for all the world like an overgrown bat.

John watches him dazedly, and then looks down at the card that had been chucked at him.

'_Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective.'_

* * *

**Author's second (apologetic) note: **Again, I'm really sorry about the 3rd Smiths'-based fic in a row (!), although I guess this one is slightly more subtle. This is my Sherlock-version of 'This Charming Man' (obviously) but I didn't think Sherlock would be one to be offering people lifts and I liked the idea of him going round barging into John's taxi all the time. There will be eventual Sherlock/John, promise! Thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**This Charming Man**

**AN: **First off, I can only apologise for how long it's taken me to update this story! I promise I haven't given up on it, and I won't bore you with the reasons for not writing more - exams, revision, etc. And the second apology is for how bad this update is - I somehow managed to delete the final draft. Yes, technology loves me. Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story. You are wonderful.

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but not me. Unfortunately.

_Chapter 2_

After his first meeting with the mysterious Sherlock Holmes (or the _taxi hijacking_, as John insists on calling it), John had found himself thinking about what the stranger had said – _you all __see __but you don't __observe_. It was true; when Sherlock Holmes had looked at John, he hadn't really been _looking_ at him at all. John could feel the intensity of his stare and he swore he could hear Sherlock's mind cataloguing every tiny detail about him. It was all very odd. John wonders if he'd ever see the man again.

As it happens, it isn't very long after that when Taxi Hijacking Number Two takes place. That Friday evening, John is stood outside his flat, checking his watch anxiously and waving his other arm at the taxi coming towards him.

He hurriedly drops his cane into the backseat and awkwardly follows it, reminding John why he doesn't travel by public transport. His _bloody stupid_ leg makes everything ten times more difficult and there is no way in hell he would try to negotiate the escalators in the Tube like this. He'd be trampled alive.

"Marylebone High Street, please- Oh for god's sake!" he splutters, when he turns and nearly collides with a dark-haired head.

"Evening, John," says Sherlock Holmes cheerfully, clambering into the cab, one hand pulling the door shut behind him and the other holding his Blackberry close to his face, his nose practically pressed against the screen.

"You again-" John starts, annoyed. He stops, his curiosity beating irritation. "Wait, how do you know my name?"

"Your blog. Obviously," Sherlock sniffs. His phone vibrates and he begins to type a message in response, frowning slightly.

"How-" John finds himself unable to complete his question again, and shakes his head. He's beginning to learn not to bother questioning Sherlock Holmes, as it inevitably leads to more confusion. "Okay, fine," he sighs.

The consulting detective finally tears his eyes away from his phone and stares fixedly at John. "Who is Sarah?" he asks casually, then continuing to text swiftly. His thumbs move so quickly they're practically a blur.

John's eyes narrow and he frowns. "How the hell do you know about Sarah?"

"You're clearly going on a _date_, John," he rolls his eyes disdainfully, curling his lip at the word. "You're dressed smarter than usual, you keep checking your watch, you don't want to be late." He pauses. "Plus, your phone is sticking out from your jacket pocket and you have a message from your _date_."

"You've got to stop bloody doing that," John grumbles, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He folds his arms and looks out of the window to watch the streets passing by. "And Sarah is actually-"

"Don't tell me," Sherlock interrupts. He hums thoughtfully. "Hmm … would have to be someone you'd see regularly, but you don't get out of your flat much. Ah, I see – she's a doctor at St. Mary's and you see her when you go for weekly check ups. She gave you her number – two, three? Three – weeks ago and you've been texting ever since." He smirks at John's astonished expression and pulls out his mobile with a flourish, his face still smug.

"And how would you know how often I leave my own flat?"

Sherlock sighs, exasperated, as if it is perfectly obvious. "Really, John. These questions are getting so repetitive. You have a limp - it's difficult for you to get around which is why you prefer to travel by taxi. You're living off an army pension and you don't have a great deal of money so you don't go out much," he continues. "And those shoes are several months old but barely scuffed."

John tries to right his expression and scowls. Sherlock seems to enjoy watching John being so utterly shocked, the git. He honestly doesn't know how Sherlock can reel off these facts about his life with complete ease. There was no way he could possibly tell all that from John's appearance. _Maybe I'm being stalked,_ he thinks to himself. He makes a mental note to check for hidden cameras or tails when he next leaves his flat.

The pair sit in silence. John hopes he won't be late meeting Sarah. He'd immediately been attracted to her when they'd first met around a month ago. She wasn't anything special – and John didn't mean that negatively – she was simply kind, funny and rather pretty too. Normal. She was just the kind of steady, reliable woman John could see himself marrying in the future.

"John, it would be much appreciated if you could stop your right leg from twitching. It's most distracting."

"I can't help it," John says defensively. He tries to stop his dodgy leg from jiggling up and down. "It plays up when I'm-"

"What?"

"Oh for- when I'm nervous!" John hisses.

"Why on earth would you be nervous?"

"I want her to like me, okay? You know, when you meet someone you want to make a good impression, don't you?" At Sherlock's blank expression he sighs. "Maybe not." Come to think of it, he couldn't imagine Sherlock's confidence ever being anything less than fully functioning.

"I rarely feel the need to make a good impression on anybody."

"You astonish me," John grumbles sarcastically. He wasn't sure that leaping into a total stranger's cab and nearly causing them a heart attack screamed 'good first impression'.

The pair fall silent and both stare out of the passenger windows. Sherlock checks his phone impatiently, punctuating his soft muttering with the occasional huff. John just steals quick glances at his watch and prays he won't be late.

"You think you're unattractive," Sherlock says a few minutes later. It was a statement and not a question. "Which explains the nerves."

"Yes," John answers shortly. He doesn't want to discuss the ins and outs of his dislike of his short stature, scarred shoulder and permanent limp, especially not when the man next to him could easily pass for some kind of male model.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."

"For crying out loud, it's alright for you to sit there in your expensive shirt looking like-" John trails to a stop before he can say anything embarrassing. "It's fine for you. You're tall and dark and_ mysterious_. People find that attractive!" He bursts out, mentally replaying his rant when Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "Oh God, uh- not that I think that. Just people in general. Obviously," he covers quickly.

In truth, John could not deny that Sherlock was quite – okay, _very_ – good-looking. The contrast between his dark hair and pale, angular features was striking and his tall slender frame only added to his attractiveness. John suspected that his well-tailored clothes cost more than an entire year's worth of his army pension. He made John feel rather inadequate, sat next to him in a cardigan. Sherlock looked unlike anybody John had ever seen before.

Of course, the fact that he was a complete and utter git with no manners to speak of was not entirely appealing.

"It's ridiculous that someone like you should care," Sherlock snorts. "Your height makes women feel comfortable, it makes you appear less intimidating, and your wounded shoulder and bad leg add to that 'fallen war hero' image -" he traced inverted commas in the air with his long fingers. "-you have. It's attractive," he states matter-of-factly.

John chokes on his objections. He's not too sure whether to feel flattered or irritated. He's about to question Sherlock on what he meant by '_someone like you_', but at that moment Sherlock flings open the door and hurtles out of the still-moving cab, waving a fistful of notes into the taxi driver's startled face.

"Goodbye, John Watson!" he yells out behind him, taking off down a nearby alley. John stares after him in disbelief, before slowly shaking his head and slamming the door shut. He continues to watch the mad detective as the cab slowly pulls away.


End file.
